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Chapter 12

I have pains in my back and side, and a burning sensation all down my front. An unbelievable pain, which shocks me right out of my half-slumber and into the cold, harsh reality. Instinctively, I cry out, but I'm quickly cut off by a paw around my muzzle. I can't move my body to prevent it. I can barely even breathe. Every single one of my muscles protest painfully when I call upon them. I'm only able to whimper against the soft paw pads over my snout, crying and groaning intermittently.

"He's awake, sir." A soft and familiar voice calls out, it belongs to the paw across my muzzle. "Thank God, I thought he'd never come too."

Movements in the corner of my eye. The tiger has come back to take his revenge. I struggle to get up, but I'm still too weak to overcome the paws holding me down.

"Try to calm him," a sharper, colder voice responds to the first one. I'm all too aware of who its owner is. "I will below, clearing out the rest of this bloody mess. Knock on the floorboards when he's ready to explain himself."

I swallow, and force my mind to focus. It had happened, it's not just a bad dream. I saw him die. Roses have grown all over his room, draped across his fur like a bedsheet. They've also grown all over my paws. The roses force their way through my fur, growing out to replace all my black with red. I see dead tigers wherever I look. Is there nowhere that bastard won't taint with his corpse? No, there's only two tigers. Killed by two very different men. I'm not the dalmatian. I only have one black spot to my name, not hundreds. I'm not cold hearted, I know what love means. It was an accident. A misunderstanding. I'm not meant to be a killer, yet. But my paws are matted with blood; there can be no doubt.

I feel the pressure around my muzzle and chest release, and I find the strength to hoist myself up to a sitting position, trying to make sense of where I am. It's dry here. It's warm. It's quiet. If I'm not in heaven, I'm in Duck's quarters. There's a large white cloth spattered with deep red splotches draped across my chest. When I try to move, the muscles underneath it complain painfully.

"Take it easy." Kit speaks softly. "And please try not to scream. It's very late, and the sailors are still asleep. You're safe. You're with me, and we're safe. Everything will be alright."

I've never seen him this scared before. He's always been brave and strong. Much stronger than I am. His expression unsettles me.

"W-what happened?" I stammer out, weakly. Even speaking sends bursts of fire through my chest. The events linger in a blackness in my mind, not dissimilar to the one which obscures my past from me. Is that too a result of some trauma? I feel pressure against my lips. It takes a while before I realise the cold stone cup I'm proffered isn't the weasel's soft lips that I truly wanted. But the kiss is sweet all the same. I drink down hungrily, despite the pain, and feel the warm tendrils of alcohol snake their way into my system.

"That'll help a little, I guess," Kit whispers uneasily. "Can't you recall anything?"

I groan, before the last of my strength leaves me. I drop my cup carelessly to the floor, and lay back heavily, and very painfully, on the mattress.

"Careful," Kit cries, and moves me back to a sitting position again. "Don't fall asleep yet. It's going to be alright, just stay awake." Kit strains against the weight of my torso, I can tell. But his voice is far more laboured than that. "Just a little bit more, fox... please."

I take a deep breath, and hunch over, leaning my elbows on my knees so that I can relax the muscles in my torso.

"You're very hurt, but you will survive," Kit tells me, as he brushes down the fur on my cheek affectionately. "We don't know how much blood you lost, so it's best if you stay with me... And your back is full of splinters. I need to remove them. Oh, Kieran... I'm so glad you're awake."

"How long did I sleep?"

"An hour. His Grace told me to make sure you were breathing. I've been with you all the time. I didn't know if you'd ever wake up again. What happened down there?"

"I don't think you want to know."

"You're probably right," Kit replies, "But you will have to explain it all the same. His Grace, you know... and it's best if you share your burden. And anyways, he asked me to find out."

"Later." I groan. "But when I do, just don't tell me I was stupid or short sighted. Not you. I know I did the wrong thing, but I don't want to hear it just now. I just want you here with me."

Kit nods obediently.

"I still have the things I found," I whisper, patting my hip. But the sash, and my shirt and trousers have disappeared. But for the bloody cloth across my chest, I'm naked.

"There was something." Kit lets out a sigh. He leans over to fumble with some rags of cloth which I initially figured some old bandages or cleaning rags, until I see the familiar hemline of one of my shirt's sleeves. Blood covers nearly every inch of it so that it looks to be dyed a deep red. Kit's paws, I subsequently notice, are stained with blood too, which he's clearly tried to wash out to no avail. He holds up a soaked, red piece of paper between thumb and forefinger. Clearly not a used bandage.

"The things you found were so covered in... in... and ripped and torn, too. His Grace couldn't read one word in twenty. That was... Is still... difficult for him."

"Is he angry with me?" I ask.

"Please don't blame yourself, Kieran."

It's not a response which lifts my mood.

"I think he's angry at the tiger, mostly," Kit hurries to add. "He didn't expect Krish to leave his post, he said as much. He's very frustrated. Whatever he tells you, remember, you did well. You did nothing wrong-"

"I killed him," I mutter darkly. "I was in his room, stealing his belongings. I attacked him. And I killed him."

I look down at my paws, which shimmer with crusted, dried blood, smelling so unlike my own that I want to tear them off.

"It wasn't your fault, Kieran. I know it wasn't."

"Not my fault?"

"Nobody will miss that brute-"

"Kit, that's not the point," I groan, exasperated. "If I'd waited for him to speak, or remained hidden, or just tried to explain, I'm sure I could've changed it. There must have been a thousand good reasons I could've told him, instead of attacking him. I should've made up some fanciful story or excuse."

"Such as?" Kit asks, rather boldly actually. "What would you have said to him?"

I look at him in disbelief. But as I open my muzzle, I can't come up with any of the justifications I thought I had ready at paw. There had been no mistaking the murder in Krish's eyes. He must have decided as soon as he caught my scent.

"I know you didn't want this," Kit continues, "but I also know you did nothing wrong Kieran. Because you're alive. That is the only thing I care about right now."

"It was not supposed to go like this... I'm sorry, Kit."

I can't bring myself to feel satisfied. I've started the path well ahead of schedule. I'm on my way to become as dead eyed as Duck himself. A quality I had once thought comforting, I now see for the curse it is.

"Do you still love me?" I whisper weakly. "Can you love someone... with this much blood on his paws?"

"Nothing between us has changed, fox." Kit seats himself behind me, carefully picking splinters out of my back, so close to me that I can feel the heat coming from him. "What you do in your service will never change what is between us. It will never undo all the things you've done for me, all the love we share."

He puts two gentle paws around me, careful so as to not squeeze any of my wounds, and leans his muzzle against my shoulder. "I love you, fox. Don't you dare go thinking you're not worthy of that."

I want to say it helps. In a way it does, but I am still too shaken to truly feel the weight of his words. For now, it's something which doesn't hurt, and for that reason I'll accept them gladly.

"I love you too," I add. "Gods be good, I hope I won't have to argue that case. Because I'm clearly awful at diplomacy."

Kit pauses, as if he's about to say something, but lets me get away with it.

"We'll have to change those bandages eventually," Kit tells me after a while of silently picking splinters out of my back. "Your wounds have stopped bleeding quite so much, but I need to get to the splinters underneath them before you sleep. So long as you keep the bandages on tight, it should hold your wounds closed. It will be uncomfortable, but you need to be strong. There will most likely be a fever too, but that can't be helped. I've already put the wine to boil, so be ready to sit upright. I have to do this quickly."

I turn my ears towards him, perking them slightly.

"When did you learn that?" I ask him. "I can't remember you being some kind of healer."

"Physician, it's called," Kit says. "It's not so difficult, I suppose. His Grace has instructed me how to lay bandages, and taught me some of the more basic ideas. And I've been to a doctor before, I know what they do. I managed to stem most of your initial bleeding quick enough, but-."

"You saved me?" I ask incredulous, wincing as a particularly big splinter comes out.

"He and I did," Kit says with pride. "He was very worried, but he doesn't show it. Perhaps he blames himself, but you'll probably never know. Noble born people are a different breed, after all. You'll get used to it. I think he's fonder of you than you might realise."

"Well, I just... fought a tiger who would've tried to kill him had I not succeeded. I'd be fond of me too, if I was him."

"Was that meant to be funny?" Kit asks in a stern voice. "I don't appreciate jokes about this."

"I need to laugh," I retort grumpily. "I need to cry, and rage and be happy. I need to feel things. I don't want to become him."

"You need to feel things?" Kit asks, bringing a paw up to my muzzle. "Then feel this, instead."

He bends my head back, pressing his muzzle up against mine. Our muzzle shapes are incompatible, but so long as we work together, it's not noticeable. The kiss is passionate and languid, and he even sticks his tongue in between my teeth at one point. I'm not prepared for the raw, affirmative emotion that comes with that gesture.

###

Duck comes in much later, his arms and the front of his coat covered in blood. His shoulders slump as he closes the door behind him, and his eyes land on me.

"It's done." Duck tells me with a stern expression. "The room is cleared out. All appreciable traces of the tiger are gone. Apart from this."

He digs into a pocket and throws a small yellow item over to the foot end of my mattress. It clatters to a halt, reflecting the moon in a smooth polished red gemstone.

"Take it," Duck mutters. "Though you came very near to ruining everything I've worked for... you've shown a dedication to the cause which cannot be denied. Don't make me regret it."

He speaks with a strain to his tone which suggest that he would have shouted instead. I reach for the small item; a gold ring with a smooth cut ruby set into it, identical to the one Duck carries. It's no use trying it on. Krish's old ring is big enough to sit loosely around my thumb. The ruby reminds me of a tiny red eye, staring at me judgementally. I'll live in the sight of this eye for the rest of my life. I ought to get used to it, even if the weight of the ring sits heavy in my palm.

"We'll have it fitted properly once we reach Dalmatia," Duck tells me. "By the lord, Kieran, you might be the luckiest fox in the world. Let's move on from this mess as quickly as we can. All hope is not lost. The saving grace for you is that little book. Nine of every ten pages are drenched, but a few pages which are dry have code ciphers on them, which really ought not to have been written down. Seems the tiger was not very confident in the accuracy of his memory. His slip up is our benefit. Let's just hope the people he reported to are unaware of this foolishness. In any case, it is a step in the right direction. A costly one, and one I'd rather not have taken at all. But a step all the same."

I try to focus on Kit's soft touch on my back, tipping my ears back to listen to the weasel's soft breaths instead. I feel conflicted, listening to this dog talking about plans for the future, without so much as acknowledging what I've had to go through. It's very owner-like. But then again, he is sharing these plans with me, and acknowledging that I have been useful.

Duck draws a long, laboured breath, and puffs it all out in a vocal sigh. I can smell the smoke on his breath.

"Now... About that fight you had." He sits down at the foot end of my mattress. One of his blood stained pads runs across the fastenings of the bandage. He takes hold of my copper collar between a thumb and forefinger, lifting it gently and exposing the pink scar underneath it. His touch is a strange mixture of skin crawling and comforting, and as with everything else he does, there is no warmth there, no affection or love. Just inquisitive curiosity.

"Was that your first real fight?"

"It was-" My voice almost crack. "It was the first time I fought back."

"Explain what happened. All I could see were two very neat cuts to the tiger's neck. I would like to know how you did this with no prior understanding of combat."

I feel compelled to give the full story to Duck. I need to know that I'd acted right. I give him my account of the fight in as much detail as I can remember, and hope to the Gods that Kit isn't listening too closely. I explain every move of the tiger's muscles, the way he placed his feet, and the way I interpreted and responded. Every response, every idea, every observation. I can't help it. The fight repeats itself again and again in my head. It becomes so distracting that I have to break off my explanation and shut my eyes forcefully, fighting to stow the images away again.

"You're completely untrained in combat," Duck reiterates, with a painfully slow and level tone. "I know you're an attentive fox, but to act based on that information as if you had years of experience, whereupon you guided your knife exactly where you wanted it? During the heat of battle? In the space of a few seconds? Against an opponent three times your size? While commiting all of this to memory?" Duck shakes his head incredulously. "That is remarkable, I must say."

"When I... when I was scared," I tell him slowly, "Time slowed down."

I fidget. Somehow, admitting that I had been afraid feels strange and unwarranted in the company of this emotionless dog. I almost feel compelled to explain what fear means, but I stop myself.

"But you can act and react as quick as if time were moving normally?"

I nod, "but only as quick as my body is capable of."

"Often, for most people, it is the other way around." Duck scratches his chin, studying my eyes carefully until I have to look away from him. "Danger dulls one's wits, and speeds up the happenings which surround them. But you claim this remarkable ability, and you've certainly backed up these claims with your actions... If I'd known... You definitely require schooling, but besides that, you need martial training. If this ability manifests consistently, you would be virtually impossible to best in combat. You could be the finest coltellino ever to have served."

His finest weapon. There's nothing fine about what I've done in his service thus far. But no matter what he says, I'll use this skill, this apparent gift, for good. Now there's a sobering thought. Either my blood loss has clouded my judgement, or maybe my body is just weak with fatigue, but I find myself somewhat, if only slightly, in agreement with him. If I am to become a weapon, I will. I won't let this carnage hobble me, I will persevere. And in time, I will change the world.

I lean my head on Kit's lap after that. Duck be damned, I just want to be close to him, as I drift in and out of sleep between fits unbearable pain. I'm so tired that my head hurts, but Kit keeps me awake. I'm keeping Kit awake too. But he doesn't seem in a hurry to catch a break.

Sometime during the night, I call for wine, as that is the only thing that'll numb the pain. What I receive is a cup of strong wine with an unusual taste. I've tasted of Duck's port which had an unnatural taste to it, that might be what this is. In any case, it makes me drowsy and unfocused. From that point onwards, I can barely remember anything.

Voices come from all around me. Annoyed, tense, angry, confused. Small arguments break out and die down amidst the sea of noise. Increasing and decreasing in importance, as my head tries to make sense of the world from behind my fiercely shut eyelids. It goes on for a day or an hour, or a week perhaps, I can't say.

Kit enters, then Duck, then both disappear, or maybe they don't. I shiver uncontrollably, sleep intermittently, drink some more wine which dampens my mind to the world at large, then I shiver some more. Days and nights blend together but I don't want to open my eyes. Sometimes I call for water, but for the most part I want more of that wine. When I sleep, I dream. The dreams are horrible. And when I wake, the dreams remain like sap on the fingertips of my mind, until I drink the wine and they go away. I sometimes forget to breathe, or forget my name, or lose the sense of space entirely; the room pulsing in size like a sail furling and unfurling inside my head. At least the wine kills the pain. Until it stops doing so.

I see a blood-stained tiger chasing me through a narrow Naweshi alleyway, which seems to grow steeper and steeper the further I run. I'm dreaming it, I'm certain. But my mind is convinced of the visions' reality, and the fear I feel is real. My sprint transitions into a lunging run on paws and feet, and then to a desperate scrabble as the way turns into a wall. My body can't go any faster; it moves as through thick syrup. Whereas I enjoy the boon of time slowing for me in real life, it seems the tiger has claimed that ability for himself in my dream. He closes the distance at full speed. There's nothing I can do. The panic I feel is more real than anything I've felt before, as my desperate scrabbles against the wall turns into an uncontrollable flailing. Then I wake up again, wrapped in my blanket, panting, sweating and bleeding profusely through my bandages. Small red roses start to appear through the cloth, growing more and more with each heartbeat. The roses grow from my chest, thick and fast like weeds. They shed their petals in great quantities. The petals run like water into rivers around on the floor. Slowly, the rivers converge and pool, and from the pool a shape emerges. A red fox. The red fox beckons me closer, out of my bed, out of the cabin, away from safety. I want to follow but my legs are not strong enough to carry me there. They're shorter than I remember. I look down to find that my tail is just a small sliver, barely long enough to reach around my waist, and my pelt is soft like cotton. I'm a cub.

I'm trying to run after the grown red fox, but I can't catch them. I'm running all the way through the city and to the sea, but it's futile. Then the red fox vanishes out of my vision, and the world goes black.

As I wake up again, the memory gains some clarity. The red fox is not just a red fox. He's dressed in colonial Castellanian attire; a red military coat and a silk sash, white belt, white gloves, a pair of pristine trousers. Gold tassels, black leather powder horn, a long rifle slung across his back. Proud and regal, but unfamiliar in his current guise. Yet, in a way, familiar too.

This memory stems from a strange place. Not a place of gentleness, kindness and joy like the memory of my mother. A different place where there's fear and worry too. A place more closely based on the reality I know, and not the cublike dreams I'd once had. It doesn't seek to guide me. If anything, it feels ominously warning. "Look at this fox," it seems to say. "See his uniform. See his destiny. Look at the path he's taken. Do not seek him out."

I'm told later that my confusion and subsequent dreams were the results of a powerful fever, which almost claimed me. Kit had remained by my side day and night, whenever he hadn't been called upon to cook. During the long, restless nights, he had read stories for me, and talked to me about Dalmatia and its governance. I had kept my eyes shut all the time according to them, but he believed I could hear him. When I ask, neither Kit nor Duck wants to tell me about the goings on outside of Duck's room.

The seas are still passing rough, and while I'm trapped in Duck's quarters, the constant seasickness prevents most of my energy from returning to me. But I'm finally properly awake. My dreams are just bad memories. Memories which still come back to me every now and then, but they are memories I'm able to separate from reality.

"We're reaching Dalmatian waters today," Duck tells me one day. A month has passed since my fight, but I'm still sore, and the wounds are still healing. "This sea is always nice and calm here. It's an inland sea, in truth, vast as any ocean. Nestled in its far end is the main capital of Dalmatia, the diamond in the crown of the League."

"How long?" I ask.

"A month more, maybe two. No ocean currents here carry us, so we rely on the winds alone."

"Months..." I nod slowly. "Will I be allowed to draw fresh air before that?"

"Can you move well enough that your injury doesn't show?" Duck responds. "The story I told was that you had taken ill with a contagious strain of fever. These sailors don't know their rickets from their leprosy, so convincing them of that was easy enough. But my efforts will all be for naught if you stroll around out there with a large scar about your torso for all to see. So, unless you're entirely certain you can hide it, I'd rather you stay here."

I need to see the sun again. I don't want to be in here for another moment. Sure, I'm sore still, and I feel desperately weak. But if I can stand, and walk, I can fool a sailor.

"What... what did you tell them about the tiger?" I ask cautiously, as I balance on unsteady legs. "May I know? So I don't say anything... compromising."

"Krish escaped," Duck says simply. "He learned of my desire to arrest him. I made sure to accuse the captain of leaking information, so as to distract from your suspicious absence. That night, he took all his possessions with him, and set off in one of the launches for the shores of the Golden continent, where we are, conveniently, forbidden to anchor up."

"What about... the night watch?"

"Asleep at the post, I'm afraid," Duck smiles an enigmatic smile. "I shared a glass of wine with him, if you catch my meaning."

The poppied stuff, I'm sure. The same stuff I've since learned Kit has been giving me for my pains and fever.

"If you insist on leaving this room," Duck continues, "you'll have to resume your duties. I require Kit back as soon as convenient."

"If anyone asks me-"

"You know nothing. You were asleep. The tiger deserted."

"Yes, sir. He deserted."